Mental
by Lea Benoit
Summary: AU/AT: Prostitute!Nat. He doesn't love her, at first, and she cannot love him – she is the girl who's killed fifteen men, and he's the one who patches her wounds. She isn't sure she can forget the countless nights she'd spent fending for herself, and he isn't sure he forgives himself for leaving. She isn't sure how to carry her heart; he thinks he might offer to carry it in his.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **

This is one half of the story; it's been a project I've worked on alongside Fault for months now, and I'm very happy to share it with you. This is my addition to the waves of work that concerns Clint and Natasha before The Avengers, and I hope you enjoy a slightly unorthodox spin on the tale.

The title might take some knowledge of foreign languages. ;)

* * *

**Menta(l)**

* * *

Mint.

Odd, she muses, and Natasha inhales again as she gathers the pieces for an image. She tries for something romantic, someone with arms around her; something to cling to when she's out amidst the leaves, scolding herself for something as ridiculous as the notion of love. But she pushes those thoughts out of her mind, and she doesn't think of that; Not yet.

The pounding in her head doesn't surprise her, though the faintest hint of vodka on her lips tells of someone who'd spoiled her with more than one the night before. It brings a smile, but she doesn't open her eyes yet – she'd rather feign sleep, keeping her brow smoothed out, laying perfectly still. Instead, she waits for the man on the other side to shift, for him to reach out and wake her.

Today, he smells like mint.

She isn't sure if they're different, all calloused hands on her arm – but some shake her awake, calling her a name that isn't even hers. Some run their fingers down, purring their greetings in her ear, and she _hates_ that – but they're the same, aren't they? They're all desperate as she is, and they roll her over and kiss at her neck, asking her for her real name, asking for a number.

It's always refused with a coy smile, a brief kiss to the lips; It's enough to bring them back when their dreams have haunted them with red hair, gleaming green eyes, and the pale expanse of her skin; Enough to hand her a few crumpled bills when they see her again, enough to tide her over another day.

She's gotten lucky in her craft, she supposes, when she walks past the women on the street. The pallor as they're leaned against the wall is something familiar, and Natasha remembers her arms propped up in the windows of cars, smirking at shaded faces barely lit in the night. It's different now, and she leaves it behind in favour of numbers slipped into coat pockets; smiles as she passes them in a bar, seating herself primly.

She lets them buy her a drink, and she smiles at them as she whispers a price in their ear. It hardly takes coaxing, stroking down their jaws, pressing fond lips to corner of mouths, before she finds herself with with the money in hand, fingers grasping at a new set of sheets for purchase as she gasps out.

On occasion, she'll wake with a silence in her mind – little clue how she'd come to be there, but she doesn't care for days like those. The bed is warm and she's alive – she knows how to survive, and she has no reason to complain just yet. The man beside her sleeps on, the faintest trace of mint, and she lays still. He breathes deep, silent, and she's hardly about to interrupt.

Finally, however, he wakes – a shift as he tugs at the blankets, getting his bearings back, and she waits. He must have been drunk, she notes quietly – because he takes far too long, and she can hear him moving around the room. Rustling for a painkiller, filling a glass of water.

It's a good five, maybe seven minutes, when he finally sits beside her sleeping form on the bed. He hesitates to touch her; She can feel his hand hover near her skin for a moment, and she almost smiles as he pulls away from her again.

That's new, she makes note. It's almost like he cares – it must be late morning, and he's got every right to throw her out, doesn't he? And still, he opts not to, instead pulling the blankets around her. More rustle, and she creases her brow slightly. She may as well seem alive, at least, allowing him closer to her.

Instead, there's a silence hanging in the air for another thirty seconds before he mutters to himself. He picks things off the floor, curses escaping his lips; still, he doesn't touch her. It's another harried sigh, the slamming of a door –

And then nothing.

She waits. She hardly breathes – this isn't how it's like. They escort her out, they kiss her hand, or they wipe at their lips and pretend for their sake it hadn't happened at all – but he hasn't. He's gone.

Her eyes only flicker open after a pause, and she slowly props herself up on an elbow; Looking around, squinting at the bloody _light_ from the curtains, and no one in sight. Natasha sits up eventually, when she's absolutely sure, and chooses to let the sheets pool at her waist – it isn't like there's a need for decency, without him. But why had he gone?

When the cold of the room finally settles into her skin, she shifts again to pick her clothes off the ground. Stockings, carefully rolled back up her legs, and her heels slid onto her feet. She'd opted for shorts, the night before, and the tank top follows.

Natasha looks up into the mirror, checking the smudge of her makeup, when she sees it. A single post-it, blue, strangely out of place, and she pulls it off the glass with careful fingers – turning it in her hands, the cash taped callously under it. The hotel's stationery, something unfamiliar still, but it's a gesture she can appreciate.

She tucks the money into her pocket, a routine – subconscious, the same motion she'd been practicing for months now. Oddly enough, she pockets the post-it, too. Sentiment, she says, scolding herself quietly, but she shakes her head and makes for the door.

If she hasn't anything else, she's allowed sentiment.

* * *

It's painfully easy when she's stepping through white streets again, glancing at the passers-by. Autumn hadn't been kind, and Winter harsh – and harsher still, now, as the snow insists on falling. She curses it, a mutter of Russian slipping past her lips, and she digs her hands further into her pockets.

Her fingers twist around the paper she's grasped in her fingers, a familiar little blue sheet that's hardly sticky – worn by now, faded, but it's tangible. A comfort; An assurance that she'd been taken care of, once, and she can hardly fault any who crave her company – or _any _company. Anyone at all, they'd say, and she'd be on the list.

Of course, Winter brings a different sort of client, and she finds herself further away from the city at night – tapping her knuckles on mahogany doors, and greeting them with shy smiles. It's a welcome repose from draping herself on the bar, at least, and she likes this. It's systematic, almost, and she might just convince herself that it's cleaner than the last job.

The little square, however, she's kept. Faceless, empty, but it's something she remembers. Natasha smiles almost ruefully at the idea – amidst the nights she'd had since then, she remembers a touch not given, words not quite said. Tonight, she almost considers throwing it away – the blue square that plagues her, a wrinkled sheet that amounts to nothing.

She refuses to romanticise the snow, and she hardly mentions how she'd run away from her house, probably left to crumble into ashes. How, when they'd shown up at her door, she'd run as far as she could; how she'd wound herself up at the first bar she'd stumbled across.

Natasha doesn't mention how she'd kissed the man who approached her, the man near thirty, barely eighteen herself; she doesn't say how they'd wound up in the inn's only bed. It's hazy enough that she hardly remembers how he'd convinced her to come with him.

And she doesn't say how she'd wound up here.

There's no need to drag the jobs out in the Winter, she's always said. It's far more convenient; there isn't a need for whispered affections or kisses to her lips, not when she'd already won them over – she'd rather be pressed against the wall like she is, and she'd rather walk out in the morning with the cash in hand.

She can't be ashamed, not when her back falls to the mattress, not when it pays the rent. She doesn't have time to think about that, not as she spreads her legs, not when it's what'll pay for breakfast. She won't regret it, not when he finally pushes into her, not while it keeps her alive.

* * *

She seats herself when the carols start up again, the drunken shouts of 'Silent Night' carrying through the window. The irony isn't lost, and she snorts as she takes another long drag of a cigarette; Smoke passing through her lips, she lets out another sigh, and she leans back out.

Tonight, she waits for him. It's a gift she's bothered to give herself, a rest from the cold of December.

She arranges the skirts of her dress, and she sighs. The waiting had hardly ever appealed to her, and it's no exception now as she looks out into the snow again – but, she supposes, he still has a few minutes. He isn't yet late.

Natasha picks her heels off the ground, and she slips them on with some amusement. They're the first thing to leave her, she finds, and she hardly sees a point – but she knows how to make an effort. She knows how to play.

They say she's young still – that she'll grow tired of the game, that it'll become chore before she knows it. She supposes absently that they've grown bitter with the treatment, and she's careful to keep her guard up. No borders crossed, nothing that she can't suppress – she likes it like this. It's a silent sort of power, no matter what they think of her, and she relishes it.

Finally, the knock comes, and she takes a deep breath. She opens the door with a smile, leaning her head on the frame, and she takes his appearance in. Nothing short of the standard, she supposes, the well-dressed gentleman; a knot tied neatly at his throat, and she can't help but smirk at the glasses.

As if the tinted lenses do anything to hide him, as if they'll help her forget his face a tad faster. She notices that – they believe in their own importance, like she'll remember. They believe they're her only. She curves her lips into a playful smile, now, and she knows that she's an actress of the highest caliber.

"Natalya," she says, extending a hand, and she lies as smoothly as she always has. "Charles, was it?"

He smiles, and he looks her over. Appreciative, Natasha's sure, and she lets him – crossing her ankles, the hem riding a little higher than it has to. "Yeah. Charles – think you were expecting me," he offers finally, and she chuckles as she opens the door to let him in.

"Right on time, too," she agrees, and she leads him with a gentle tug of his hand. He's nervous, somehow, and Natasha finds it almost endearing – pulling him in close, holding herself to him. She trails gentle, coaxing fingers up his cheek, moving to remove the glasses.

"Done this before?"

He smirks at that, and he presses her back just a bit. "Absolutely," he says, but he tugs away from her hand. Natasha doesn't let the confusion touch her face, but she raises a brow at him. A kink, perhaps, of sorts? "Do this often?"

The sense of humour is unexpected, and she allows a small chuckle to escape. "What, Christmas?" she returns, keeping her voice as light as she can. "Once a year. Not terribly fond."

Charles chuckles, and she allows a smile to spread on her lips. It isn't clean, though, isn't at all convenient, not with the way he shifts his hands in his lap. "'Course you're not. Spend most of them drinking, myself – join me?"

The question throws her. It's familiar, yes, but she rarely hears it outside of the warmth a bar would provide. They would be slightly drunk as they were, and they would hold a cocktail for her – which she'd accept with a smile, toasting them. But this is different. "Pardon?"

"A drink," he repeats for her, and he reaches for his bag. "Figure you could use one."

Natasha takes a step forward, and she bends to look into his eyes – her hand resting between his legs, inches away from what he must have come for. "And if I decline?" She purrs low in her throat, trying to initiate, taking her lead back.

Charles – he smirks, and he looks back at her with confidence. "I drink on my own," he says simply, and leans forward for a brief kiss. Firm, unromantic, and Natasha isn't even sure that he's paying her for a night to fall on the sheets. She isn't sure she minds, really, and she pulls away.

"Not in this weather," she says, a pause of silence broken by the sound of her heels on the floor – she pulls her chair over, careful, and she seats herself opposite him. "Too cold out. No one worth your time."

Charles doesn't respond to that, and he smirks as he reaches over to pick his bag off the floor. "And that's why I have you," he says, feigning dismissal, pulling a bottle into his lap. It's untouched, and she raises a brow at it – a gift, not something they tended to give her. Wines, champagnes – she'd seen those, but she didn't care for them.

This, however, she knows. With another quirk of her lips, she goes to fetch a glass.

He pours her a drink, first. She sits back in her chair, wooden and old, and she hardly cares. It's Christmas, and he isn't pawing her just yet – he's keeping his hands in his lap, pushing those glasses up on occasion, and he holds the glass up to toast her. She eventually shuts the window when the carols get louder still, and she sighs at the quiet.

He pours again before a half-hour's properly passed. Charles seems to smile a bit wider, and he chuckles as he nudges – she keeps her legs crossed and he doesn't ask her to spread them wider, not like she'd expected to have done by this point. They talk about the weather, snowing and icy and much too cold to be out.

There's something hauntingly familiar in the way he holds his hands. She forgets, though, as he tells another one of his jokes – she laughs, but he isn't as funny as he thinks he is. He fills another.

And another.

And another.

* * *

She's warm when she finally opens her eyes, vaguely aware of an arm wrapped loose around her shoulders, and she sighs out. It's comfortable, and it's not unwelcome in the chill that waits for her today – in fact, she'd rather not move.

Natasha doesn't let herself shift, not for a while. It's not long before she's crossed to the bathroom, however, forced to her knees as her alcohol comes back up. Her head is throbbing as she gropes for the edge of the sink, using it as support, pushing her hair back with a quiet groan escaping her. She prays she hasn't woken him – it wouldn't do, not like this, losing her composure.

She chides herself with that, and she wipes at her mouth as she seeks a pill to soothe the ache. Her fingers move with practice, popping it into her mouth – swallowing it dry, usually to remedy the soreness they'd leave with her, but this is different. She hardly hurts at all, she barely manages to think, when her head begins to clear. With that, she deems herself presentable – sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, rubbing at her face.

The first thing to catch her eyes are the shades, and she smiles a bit as she picks them up, turning them in her hands. She thinks that she remembers the faintest trace of her fingers on his cheek, down the stubble, finally pulling the tinted glass off so she could see him better – but it hardly matters to her now.

When it becomes apparent she isn't going back to sleep, she pushes herself back up on her feet. Fishing the nearest piece of clothing off the ground, she pulls it on, standing in front of the mirror to inspect any bruising. The glasses are still closed in her hand, but she doesn't set them down yet.

Instead, however, a little square stuck to the mirror catches her attention. Blue, three inches by three, and she frowns at it – a post-it pasted over her fee, neatly folded. Natasha glances back at him with a frown, and she slowly peels it off the glass.

She turns it in her hands, and she keeps her brow creased. She'd had many ideas since he'd left her months ago – and the least of which was that he'd come to her again. It could have been someone else, she reasons, and she shakes her head before tucking the money away in a drawer. Someone – _anyone _could carry a little sheet like this.

Well.

It's still a shame, she thinks after a beat, that she hadn't laid a little longer. Perhaps he would've pulled blankets up her shoulders, and maybe he'd have held her. Her lips quirk into a wry smile as she pads to the kitchen, pulling out a mug, getting a coffee in order – she isn't a little girl anymore, and she doesn't believe in love. Love had been for the child that she'd left knee-deep in the Russian snow.

She takes a long sip and inhales deeply, letting out a contented sigh. It takes the edge off, somehow, and she rolls her head out. It'd always been calming, and she pushes thoughts of his identity out. Charles – she'd just have to ask the girls who'd lead him to her for a name, for a face.

"Morning," a hoarse voice greets behind her, and she smirks. So he'd woken when she moved, she supposes, and he'd come to find her. How sweet.

"Morning," she returns, straightening her back out. "Good sleep?"

Natasha turns to the side, and she peers out the window, down to the street. No one's about just yet, and she sighs as she props a hand up on her hip, picking her coffee up again. Charles lets out a low chuckle, and he steps into the kitchen with her. "Yeah. Hope you're not roughed up."

She almost snorts – like she's anything fragile, and he grossly underestimates her. "I'm not delicate," she says dryly, taking another sip.

"Suppose not," he chuckles. There's a hint of a hiss of pain, and then – "Have you got any ice?"

She nods after a beat, crouching beside the box to dig around for ice. "Knocked your head, maybe?" She says conversationally, turning back. No, not really – she knows better, the headache after that much alcohol. "You could have just asked for an aspirin–"

The word dies on her lips, and she stares. Immediately, her mind comes to a screeching halt, and she can't move – can't fucking budge, not an inch. Her stomach clenches painfully and she feels her throat go dry, her grip tightening on her cup until her knuckles are white.

She sees the steely blue eyes first. The gaze she'd relied on for support when she'd travelled in that tiny car with him. A gaze she'd never quite forgotten, and she remembers waking up cold when he'd packed up and left. She remembers searching for him in this kitchen, waiting for him to come back – days on end before she'd gone to the police, begging them for help.

She remembers being willing to do anything to get him back.

Her words are croaked out when she speaks, and she's gone a horrible shade of white. "Clint."

The colour drains out of his face, then, and it's obvious he'd forgotten – inhibited in judgement, his hangover probably still pounding in his head, and he'd forgotten to fetch his glasses. She's suddenly aware of them in the ringing silence, sitting on the counter, and she slowly forces the coffee down to the table.

He roots himself down, though, and she knows he isn't going to run – she hates that she knows it, she hates that she knows he'll clench his fists before his fingers ball up. A tell, something she'd learned, something she'd filed away. It comes frothing to the surface now, and she's very well near to drowning.

The silence is deafening with a ringing before Natasha feels a seam burst, the initial shock giving way to everything she'd carefully locked away. Everything she'd buried, everything she'd tried to push down into herself once more.

"Natasha," he begins after a pause, a croak, and she feels something else shatter. "I–"

"Why are you here?" She manages to breathe out, her voice shaking, and she keeps her face schooled into an impeccable calm. It's unnerving, she can see it in his eyes – blue, wide, kind, blue, tired – but she straightens her back and keeps her gaze cold.

They hold their ground, just like they always had. Too proud to stand down, too fucking terrified to move forward, and they simply _stay_. He's desperate, and she's so bloody overwhelmed – she has questions and he has too many answers he'd want to pour out at once. This isn't about being the girl he'd paid for.

This is about being the girl he'd paid to leave behind.

The girl he'd left to _be _paid for.

She feels the initial anger she'd felt burning inside her – slow but sure as it fights back for the surface, trying to peak again, and she takes a step forward at his silence. Natasha's never had much patience, not even with her skill to hold it together, and she tightens a hand into a fist. "Why. Are. You. Here?" She repeats, although it's bitten out, carefully reined in.

"It doesn't matter–" He begins, but she's faster, cutting off a half-assed response that would leave neither of them satisfied.

"_Why?_" she gets out, low. Dangerous.

She's every bit the girl he'd found, now. The little girl who'd shot fifteen men, the one running for her life. She'd been knee deep in snow, and covered in blood, and he'd taken her to bed – to clean her wounds, to set her under covers. The only man who ever had – she should have fucking _known_ the touch.

"I wanted to see you," he offers lamely, and it's laughable as it sits between them. They know she isn't taking it, and he almost winces at his answer. Natasha knows he's never been good with words – he'd tripped over his name when he'd introduced himself to her in that inn, and she'd laughed. She thought he must have found her strange, but he'd carried her up the stairs all the same.

He gathers his thoughts another second, and there's pain in the patience she musters to keep herself from shoving him out. Her instincts are screaming at her, but she focuses on his quiet breaths. She'd always been the better actress, she'd always been the better of them. So why'd he left?

"You wanted to see me," she repeats, her voice hollowed out.

He nods, cautious, and he steps forward. Natasha doesn't budge, at first, but she regards him with ice. Clint pauses after a second, and he stays where he is. Natasha folds her arms protectively, putting some space between them again, and she waits.

"Natasha," he says after a pause, and she flickers her gaze up to his. For the first time, her body feels remotely tainted – she'd allowed him to touch her, and she feels a need to scrub at her skin. "I had to leave. I thought– I thought you'd get a job, or–"

"I have a job," she says evenly. Cold, sharp – she hasn't anything to hide with this man. She behaves as she is, and she keeps her guard up around herself.

"This isn't a job," he returns, and a laugh passes through his lips before seems to realise it. "Natasha, look at you – you could've found a store, could have gone to _school_, I left you everything I had–"

She snorts, and he falls silent. He sets his jaw hard at that, and she stares back at him in challenge. "This is a job. I do my work, and I get paid for it. I'm _good_ at it," she tells him, keeping her anger rippling below the surface, folding her arms. "You just – you _promised_, and I _searched_–"

Natasha flexes her fingers almost nervously, curling them into a fist. He's gone silent again, waiting for her to finish, and she can't find the words.

"I looked for you," she says desperately, her voice hoarse. She remembers the first nights on her own; the ones where she'd started sleeping in the middle of the bed and the ones she'd filled his place, craving contact. Where she'd begun to feed off the others, where she'd reduced herself to nothing more than a body to use; She'd convinced herself to like what she did, too, distracting herself with sweaty skin and tainted sheets. "I hated you."

"Good," he says, not daring to miss a beat. He finally steps forward, but Natasha refuses to back away – refuses to give him an inch of her territory. "So why didn't you _forget_?"

She finds herself at a quiet loss, and the silence of the flat slowly begins to unsettle her, slowly sinking into her bones. It only seems to remind her – a nagging, creeping ice up her spine – of who she is; Who she had become when he'd tired and left.

She inhales – a deep breath with the slightest trace of mint in the air burning her nose – and she refocuses her gaze as she collects her thoughts.

The answer is simple, hovering in front of her, and it's a simple matter of trying to silence the protests in her head. She hadn't forgotten because she _couldn't_, and she stares at him now with so much to ask, so much that she'd never managed to get after he'd left her alone.

She hasn't time to walk down a fucking memory lane.

"Get out," she says quietly. Clear, resolute, and simple, her eyes shut as she tries to block most of it out of her range.

"No," he returns, and he looks at her with a pressing gaze. "This is my flat, isn't it? Shouldn't I be welcome?"

She almost snarls, and she steps forward. "It's mine. You left me everything," she repeats, mocking him now with what she has. "Leave."

"You were getting me ice," he says calmly, his voice grating on her nerves, every _inch_ of him burned into her. "Think you owe me that."

"I owe you _nothing_," she returns, sharp, and she folds her arms. "What, want me to thank you for leaving me a whore, Clint? Should I send the clients' regards for putting me on the market?"

"Stop that," he bites, and he steps forward with a clenched fist.

"_You_ did this to me," she says again, cutting him with what she has – she knows that he can't stand the thought of hurting anyone more than he has to, and he's sliced clean through her. Natasha won't allow him to walk out guilt-free, she knows.

"I didn't," Clint says after a long, pained silence. "I was protecting you. I'd rather this than find you dead."

And she flares. "_Protect?_"

"We were friends," he insists, reaching out to touch her, and she slaps him hard.

The red shape of her hand blossoms on his skin and she smiles, smug. It's nowhere near what she could do, and they both know it – Clint steps away from her, and Natasha straightens up to her full height.

"Get out," she says, and she folds her arms again as she looks at him.

"You're going to be alone," he says in weak argument, and Natasha tightens her arms just a bit more than before.

"I'd rather be alone," she tells him, and she turns back to grab his glasses off the counter. She tosses them back at him, and she busies herself with coffee. Clint pauses behind her for a long moment, seeking an argument, seeking a reason to stay, but he's still at a loss.

He waits for her to turn, but she never does – instead, the sound of shuffling steps breaks through as he gathers his things and goes through the door. Natasha doesn't move an inch until she's absolutely sure he's gone, setting her mug down.

She runs hands through her hair as she tells herself it's all fine, lying as much as she can to try and calm herself down. She drops his shirt to the ground as soon as she can, and she steps into the shower to wash him off – scrubbing hard, as if her skin would be any cleaner without the taint of Clint's touch on and inside her.

She goes back to the money after an hour, and she turns it in her hands – flipping the blue paper in her hands again, only to spot the little message in a script all too familiar.

_Happy birthday._

Her fingers crush it, and she sets it alight.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I know that this was supposed to be out at the end of January, and now we are almost in the middle of May. I apologise; I had initially had the draft ready, but I've had it in the workshop for the four extra months so that I could ensure that the ending would be... more satisfying.

I hope you've enjoyed this story! Please do leave comments as you like. :)

* * *

When the new year peeks around the corner, she's fucking for free.

Anyone would have done — if she's honest, she doesn't care where she finds him or if he reeks of alcohol, or if she doesn't have a clue where she is when she wakes up in his bed – and she doesn't want to be thinking. That's all she's done for days, thinking herself into a stupor and being unable to drag herself out. Clint. Clint is there when she doesn't want him to be.

She wonders, as she lays herself dank sheets, surrounded by peeling white walls, why she hasn't packed and left. Why she hasn't run like hell, run away from here before he can find her, before he can begin to leave notes, calls and messages and... why she hasn't tried to forget that once, she had believed that he'd _needed_ her. Like he says that he needs her to listen, or that he needs to talk to her, or that he needs to explain.

Natasha doesn't want that. She wants to run and– _fuck_, this one hurts. She bites her lip and lets a soft gasp escape, though – enough to feign pleasure and release some of it so she doesn't make any more noise than she has to. The man is holding her too tight; he is bruising her wrists and he hasn't prepared her, but he forces his way in and it hurts–

Nothing to be done, she repeats. Nothing to be done.

She has already gathered the money he had given her, she remembers – a thick wad of bills in her mailbox, and she has put it away. She doesn't want to use it, doesn't want to remember that she used to depend on him. That she used to think he would make it better for her. But she is alone, and weakness is permissible, isn't it? Because she is forgetting, forgetting him, trying to push it all away and run before it can trap her again. So she has locked the money in a box, hidden where she can't see it, where she has hope to discard it from her mind.

And then it is January fourteenth, she notes absently. Natasha doesn't need him, she proves to herself. Isn't she doing herself a favour, doing well? She doesn't know him, now. He hasn't existed.

She doesn't care if there's money or not when she wakes to her partners, and she walks out the door with the clothes on her back to the apartment. The money she gets from waitressing in the bar must be enough, for now; it isn't like she's paying rent, is she? So she lets the men who leer take her for free. It's blinding, deafening, and it becomes a drug. It is like it was when he'd first left; and she knows she will be okay.

The apartment is safe. He's paid for it. The only thing he's been good for, and she depends on it – for when she isn't eating, too damned lazy to get out of bed or to brave the pain of bruises to walk to the store, she is there. Resting. Crying, if she admits it to herself, while she sleeps and dreams of the past. And it stings. She doesn't count days; she doesn't have a calendar, and she doesn't care. If she survives, she is lucky; she will not allow him to destroy her.

It is the middle of January, now, and she is still there. She is alive. The sex grows harsher as she wanders further from her building each night, and the men who come from alleys are ready to take her against walls in the dark. Hurried and rough. It's burning with life, and she allows it to take over her for this one moment. Like she has nothing to lose, and perhaps, she doesn't. She doesn't have anything left completely hers. And she can rebuild it all, can't she? Without help. Without anyone.

Natasha doesn't need anyone. She can heal herself.

All it takes for a fix is a bit of powder and a winning smile, a mask she knew that Clint had worn for so many months during their time together. All lies, she knew, and she was going to pay for falling for it. Just like she makes the men fall now, make them believe that she might love them, too. So she gets out there, and she is beautiful for a night until someone closes their hand around her wrist. A price is settled – or a lack thereof – and she lets a purring laugh out before they are moving. This is better, she knows. A routine, falling back into a cycle she was familiar with.

But then – there is a night she runs out of makeup; smoothing the little foundation she has left over her cheek, it still isn't enough to cover the dark purple blossoming across her jaw. Natasha grimaces, this time, and she tugs the robe she is wearing down just long enough to see the marks on her shoulder, too. They don't hurt, in retrospect.

Or they no longer do.

* * *

She has often heard isn't safe to form an addiction. It isn't. It'll have you dependent, and it will kill you as soon as it disappears. Do not form yourself an addiction. Natasha. Do not.

But some nights, instead of heading toward the supermarket, it is far easier to straighten her back out and add the slightest lilt to her walk toward the club. She smooths down the surface of her coat, suppressing every shred of guilt she can find in herself as she goes to seek someone out. After all, those are free; even playing the cards right will earn her the free drink she needs.

Natasha slips into the warmth of the music, and at first she is hesitant. She could simply hang around and allow herself a date to come naturally, but she figures it might take too long. The girl on the table already has their attention, anyway, and she isn't about to compete desperately. Making a quick note of the people with their eyes on her, she makes her way toward the dressing room in the back. It is better, she knows, to leave her things where they will be safe – in a place like this, where no one is trusted.

When she pops the door of her locker open, yanking it past the rust jamming it shut, there are other girls in the room. Younger, flashier, with sequined bodices for dancing on tables, and she finds them far too crude in their preparation for their audience – Natasha doesn't need to stand beside a pole, most nights. She simply has to walk through the space, throwing a wink at someone – hook, line, sinker. And it isn't any different that night.

She smooths her dress down, putting her hair back and sliding a pin into place. It is then, however, that it catches her eye.

A package. Blue, she notes absently. The colour is familiar, though she doesn't place it immediately; she reaches out for it, the tiny thing, and she pulls it off the top of her locker to turn in her fingers. It is light; she unwraps it carefully, wary of the gifts she has been sent before. She has no care for admirers.

The sheet rips as she pulls it off the small box, but her curiosity quickly fades into the deep frown on her face. Her fingers grip a small roll of cash as she pulls it out of its enclosure, and she turns it in her hands. She doesn't recall a customer who hasn't paid her upfront; it had always part of the process, she knows, if she wanted the money at all.

If it isn't work, there must be a reason it is here. It cannot have been the little excess she gets from the club, not just yet, and she doesn't think it could be of this amount. The girls are becoming curious, she notices, and she pulls the wrapping out of their sight, shoving it back into the locker.

So this is a gift. It reeks of familiarity, she muses, bringing it up into the light before she catches the faintest scent. It only takes her seconds to place it after that, and her gaze shutters for a moment. How would it have been possible to sneak a man of his size into the room of women? Or had he simply bribed one of them, charming them with a smile?

And how would it still smell of him now, with the slightest touch of mint on the surface of the paper?

Her first instinct is to burn this, too. Keep the money and burn the rest of the package before she can uncover any other correspondence, anything that could betray that he is still communicating with her. She does not have the time for him. She will not make it. But there is money here – there is enough for a few nights, enough for a rest.

...At least there isn't a note, she muses to herself, and she sighs a bit before she is forced to slide it into her wallet. She knows that she is running out; she will have to delve into the supply he has left for her, despite her pride, despite the stubborn independence she can acknowledge. But how had he known?

Well, no matter. She has nothing against exploiting the affections of others, and she hasn't had an issue until now. There is no need to begin, no need to allow concern to grow over a man with no concern to her. She does not have to care – the money isn't asking her to care, not really. It is a desperate cry for forgiveness.

And how sorry he is.

* * *

She finds herself starting again, right back where she had begun. Again she is leaning on the bar, and she allows herself a flow of men begging for her name, begging for a night with her. This time, the journey up is easier. She knows this game, and she isn't a rookie. She has the allure of a girl with some culture, anyway, and it raises the price for the class of her customer.

Most of the time, she reasons that she is able to focus on the pleasure. It isn't a chore to have a man who desires her above her, someone who treats her with a great deal more care as they make-believe that she is someone else. Probably, they imagine a companion they already have. She assumes their face for the night, and she can perform.

Yet, she finds herself unable to focus, sometimes. She forgets a moan when it is appropriate, and she doesn't writhe the way they want. Natasha knows her figure is pretty, though it isn't enough to work with the people she so desires to support her if she cannot play the role as the actress they require. After all, she is expensive, and the work is rare – it barely meets how much she needs to get her through, but it is enough.

And even so, she finds herself a crutch in the money that does not come from work.

Before she realises it, she is relying on package on the twenty-fifth day; enough for a trip to the market. She wonders when he comes – sometimes, she is there for most of the day; all she does is turn her back and it will have arrived. Of course, part of her knows that she does not want to find him after all. It becomes almost game, and if she loses, she takes the money as his prize. To spend.

It almost reminds her of the youth she has almost cleaned from her slate. Waiting for a care package on the job, while she had been tracking a target for weeks. She had been sixteen in the middle of Siberia, shivering when she receives the little box. Soup. Matches. Ammunition. Everything she needs to survive and kill, as her employers have always cared for – nevermind comfort. Clint, however, provides her with excess. It is enough for alcohol. Enough for... clothing, sometimes.

But then she is wondering why she will concede to his wishes; there is no better way to convince him that they are again on amiable terms, and it will only encourage him to come closer. Sentiment would be dangerous, would it not? And so she keeps it, discreet as she tucks it all into the box under her bed, ready to be taken to the bank when she has the time.

She knows it is what he wants; she doesn't deny that it would benefit her, but she doesn't quite want to abandon that. She doesn't think she will give it over, not her pride, not yet.

Natasha muses about it as she sits on the bar tonight – she is leafing through the cash she has rolled in her hands, picking it apart and trying to count it over and over before she is absolutely sure how much she has. How long she can go without taking a job, without falling into bed with a new man, and before she will see another one of these.

Months pass easily like this. The seasons are easier on her as the weather begins to warm, and she is more familiar with the spring, the summer and the autumn that follows along, a cycle of time that inches forward with the movement of the stars. At least she can roam the streets without the weight of the thick fabric on her shoulders, which eases her load as she moves around the city. It allows her more freedom, and she supposes the bare skin at her neck excites them more than they will admit.

But it isn't long before she is waiting again for another little box above her locker.

* * *

When the city becomes frosted with the edges of the cold once more, Natasha has her body pressed up against yet another stranger, smirking a bit as she presses her lips to his. He has his hands on her hips and she has hers on his shoulders, but there's nothing in the touch. She knows that, and so does he, since he's slid his offer into her pocket for the night.

The package for November had come with enough for her to be flexible, she supposes, and she manages to unbutton the man's collar, pressing a long kiss to his neck. She won't allow him much more than a quick disappearance into the back, sure, but he pays her for a decent smile and a feigned desire to see him again once they are finished.

She thinks the air is too frigid to stay close to the doors, past that, and she wanders back into the club. It is, after all, a celebration – or she thinks it is, even if she hasn't seen the calendar for days now. It had always made her too excited, and she had ended up in a painful anticipation.

So it is December, isn't it? Is it Christmas?

There are far too many people in the room, she notes, and not the usual gallery of men she has come to be used to; no. There are the female companions littered throughout the space, cramped together as they move to music and grip their drinks in the hopes that they will not tip on their clothes. It seems wasted already, and Natasha knows it isn't even yet past midnight.

What a shame. She pulls her coat on when she next comes close to the door, losing her patience with the growing chaos, and she slips herself out into the frigid air. The year is colder than the last, but she doesn't quite seem to care as she continues on her journey home. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she tells herself it isn't quite as bad as the Russian winters, and she is able to walk without fear through the darkened streets.

But if it is Christmas, it is the twenty-fifth – there must be a package, then. She allows the smallest of smiles to grace her lips as the game is set in motion, and she can't help but turn back to look over her shoulder.

Well. Perhaps she had already seen it, and perhaps she had simply missed it in the mass of her clothing squeezed for the night into the cramped space. It would be easy to not have been looking. For now, she needs a calendar, and she will begin to search for what she is waiting for.

But tomorrow, perhaps. She will return tomorrow.

The sleep tonight is peaceful, as a present to herself – unbooked but unbothered, completely content to lie in her bed for a while longer before she allows herself rest. There are no carols in the air tonight, and she slips into the blessed silence that cradles her as she falls off into a land of dreamlessness.

It doesn't last long, however, and she is awake as soon as the light is in her eyes. Perhaps she had stayed out too late the night before, and she hadn't been aware of the time when she had slipped into the apartment. No matter, she says to herself, straightening her back and looking around. She will manage.

She dresses herself slowly, resting her hands on her hips as she surveys her reflection – she isn't wearing any makeup, today, dressed to spend the day alone, and she smiles just a bit. There might be a shock when she arrives, seeing the distinction between her and the woman whom she lets parade through the club on most nights.

But she doesn't care about that, not when she grabs her keys and slides her arms into her coat. It's simply a collection, and she will be on her way. There isn't a reason she has to stay for a day where she intends to take no work, not when she could simply spend the day in her own bed.

She walks steadily with her hands deep in her pockets, following a familiar path through the snow toward the building. She kicks listlessly at the stray cigarette box, carelessly discarded on the side of the road, and she ends up chuckling to herself.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is nagged by the fact that she is returning for another one of his presents. Another moment of forgiveness – though it isn't. She is exploiting what he is only too willing to give, taking his weakness and using it to her advantage. Where is the fault in that?

It is simply the compensation she deserves for the leaving her. Natasha can drink to it.

At this point, it is probably noon, since she has dallied in leaving the house, stopping for a leisurely coffee break on her way. It had always been useful in giving her a clearer mind to think, and she considers what else she could possibly do. There isn't anything she feels like spending her time on, anyway, but she can't possibly do _nothing_.

She'll think after, she supposes.

Stepping into the space slowly – and noting the absence of life on the floor, so out of place with the lights still flickering in the room. She thinks that perhaps the owner is still present, out cold in the back, probably draped over his armchair with a woman in his lap. She doesn't blame him, however. It is Christmas, after all. A waste of time now well-spent.

Out of the corner of her eye, she realises that he is still asleep when she walks into the space. It still reeks of their pleasure, but she doesn't care overmuch as she walks up to her own door, pulling it open in routine. She is busying herself with pulling clothes out, folding them over her arm, waiting for the blue box to fall from inside of it.

But soon she has costumes draped over her coats and other clothes, leaving the space completely barren. And no familiar wrapping stands in the place of her apparel, no weight of a box that isn't fabric in her arms. She can see the 2silver walls of the box rather clearly, like this, and the confusion quickly fades as she lots out a soft chuckle. Of course it will not have been here.

So she reaches a hand up, sighing, and she stuffs the clothing back into the small box of space – but then her fingers close around air, and she frowns. She pulls back an empty hand with a deep frown, and she slowly rubs the dust of the cabinet between her fingers.

Nothing?

Natasha's gaze flickers over to the calendar pinned precariously to the wall – but yes, it is the twenty-fifth, it is the day it is supposed to be here. The gifts had usually come before dawn, before she can see him slip in and out, and today it is not here. But that isn't possible. It has to be there – perhaps he is simply playing a game with her, and it is hiding somewhere she cannot see.

So she turns to look around – at the tables, places she would see. On the bar top, behind it, where the girls might have seen it. Where he would have thought she would find it, like an Easter Egg hunt held in the middle of the Winter.

But once she touches her fingers back to the door of her locker, she is sure that there is... nothing here. The eleventh present hasn't arrived – and again, he is there, weighing down on her as an unwelcome load on her birthday. Except he isn't there, and it isn't a burden in the least. She can barely feel his weight on her shoulders.

And it becomes, in itself, trouble. She scorns that, though, and she brushes herself off. No matter. There is shame in the crutch he gives to her, and she hates it anyway. It is time to step her own game up, to ensure that she is able to provide for herself again once more. She will tell herself that she hates the little stipend that Clint has been giving her, since it cripples her.

This is simply the chance to stick her feet back under her. She can welcome it with open arms.

And so she folds the clothing neatly, smoothing down the front of her coat, and she turns. At least she will not be spending her day on nothing, not wasting her youth away, not allowing herself to grow decrepit. Natasha will return home, put on the makeup she needs, and she will be off.

* * *

The first catch doesn't come, however, until it is well into the night, and she is too tired for a grand show. It must be the Christmas spirit that year, she muses, keeping the gentleman late at the parties, not at all interested in a woman too keen on letting them take her home.

It must be off-putting, she reasons. (It isn't her and it isn't that she's deteriorated with dependence. It isn't that they can reason that she is waiting for something else.)

So she remains quiet that night, unassuming, but it's near morning when someone pushes up against her back and rolls his hips harshly into hers. Natasha could wince at how forward he is, but she is quick to tug him by the tie and hold him close to her lips so she can set a price. Quick to agree, he is too drunk as he pushes her into the restroom.

And that is all it is. It barely hurts and it barely has her faking a moan when he's finished with her and he is leaving. Just slightly confused, Natasha grips the money in her hand and she counts the cash again. He must have paid for hours longer, and yet he is retching at the door, stumbling on his way out.

Everything about it feels amiss, and she can't help but feel herself grow disappointed. She spends a couple of days going through the list of clients she obtains from the boss, lining them up as close as she can to earn the money before the New Year. She will not start with a filthy debt on her hands, and she will not allow herself to stoop to begging.

This evening, however, she is alone in her apartment. Natasha finally admits her exhaustion, having laid in far too many beds for one too many days, and she is tired. Perhaps she will go to get herself something ridiculous from the supermarket – a novelty she can get for a low price to pick apart and busy herself, preventing herself from falling asleep.

It seems absolutely out of the question for a moment, but then she is getting up. She is sliding clothing on in an automated routine, trying to get herself to be presentable. All it takes is a simple dress and a dab of makeup, she remembers from the early tricks she had learned from herself, to get herself passed over in the streets. It will be alright.

Pulling the door open, she turns to get her wallet – or a little bag she keeps her money in, if she's more accurate. She hasn't got a card or a license, anyway, and she has no need for one. Distracted for a moment as she attempts to get her keys, she doesn't notice the pad of footsteps up to her door until he has opened it up, using the old set he had had before, and he reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder.

And Natasha feels her blood go cold. Immediately, her nerves are sparking with energy as she tries to react, turning around and finding herself faced with blond and blue and the stench of blood. She is close to closing a hand at his neck, keeping her calculation in mind, knowing him. Knowing that face, wanting to know how quickly she can get away and how quickly she can throw him on his back.

But there is blood. Without moving, the white of his shirt is soaked in blood, and a small stream forms to the side of his mouth. He parts his lips, though the slight congealing of blood creates the most curious thread, and he speaks.

"...There's dinner," he mutters hoarsely, despite how ridiculous he looks. It's now she realises how much alcohol he must have been through, to get his voice like that. And what hers must sound like. "Y'know. Chinese."

It's too familiar. He's said it countless times, but this time he is standing there, looking like he must have had bullets in his stomach, having something broken inside of him – and physically, not the sort she wants. How is it that it still feels the same? Natasha is still caught, his hand staining the fabric of her dress, and she looks at him, her body coiled and tense.

Her eyes flicker over the wounds, and she is already calculating how to close them on her own body, thinking through the training that kicks in almost naturally. Somehow, his presence is weaker than before, softer than the last time he'd been standing in her hall. He isn't a customer now, and he is simply a man holding a bloodied bag of food with an effort in his eyes to apologise to her. He is Clint.

Why is she thinking so? Rationalising the faults that he has had until now, and allowing him to stand in her haven? Why is he allowed to _stand_ there, looking at her still?

She lacks a response except to let out a bitter laugh, and she forces her muscles to function with her mind. Natasha turns around then – she plans for a punch, swift to his jaw, but he is better than her now. Even with his injury, he is faster than her, almost laughing in her face with the way he responds. He is mocking her without a smile – he must be!

He's been training, if she thinks about it, and he catches her fist before she can even gather enough power to throw. She feels the stickiness of blood close around her fingers, and it makes her hesitate for a moment. Friend? Would he have been friend, after all the gifts she'd taken in?

Her gaze flickers for a moment in surprise, quickly overtaken by an immense instinct to run, and she attempts to struggle until she is free. But he doesn't let her move, and he grips her tight, and it hurts, it _hurts_, and she won't struggle, but she opens her hand to try and ease it. It is already bruised. He must know, especially with the way he struggles to stand, and it is insulting – insulting that even then she cannot beat him.

He attempts another word before she can break out. "I need to–"

"Why are you here?" She spits as she meets his eyes, her voice so run down, so empty of any sort of compulsion. Too similar to the first time. It just cuts him off, she thinks, and maybe she might've let him get a word in. They are steely and as blue as she remembers, but she must fight. He has to leave – nevermind the presents. She doesn't need the presents. "I told you to_ go_."

This time, he isn't wearing glasses, and he hasn't masked his face. The approach is different, and it throws her just a bit. Recalibrate. Think – before he does, and before he finds a way to root himself. The door is closed and she can't unlock it from where she is, held with his strength to the spot. She doesn't need him, and he needs to learn to live without her.

Well, as if it were a problem. He'd left.

The breaths are tense, and he exhales slowly, matching her gaze. He is firm when he speaks again, his hand finally showing his weakness as it comes to rest on his side. The food swings precariously in his fingers, and he hisses a bit as the side of the box collides with a wound obviously open. "I need your help."

Natasha has an answer on the tip of her tongue, but she won't surrender it. She instead swallows it down and forces herself and she shakes her head and she looks at him as she spits it back.

"Fuck off."

He sets his jaw hard. "An hour. One hour of your time," he says, and he forces her gaze to his.

"No," Natasha growls, beginning her struggle again, but she's too tired. She's thin, underfed and unpracticed, and he easily overpowers her even with the wound. They begin to struggle a bit, though, and there's enough of a fight that maybe she thinks she might win.

But he begins to talk – he is always talking about the most useless things, and even now he doesn't shut up, doesn't just sit back and allow some silence to fall into the physicality of the fight. Even now, he struggles with words, and she tries to stay on top of it. She doesn't have the time to give him; she doesn't know what else she has to be doing, but she knows that if he speaks, she'll trip.

A swipe to his cheek, and she slaps him. Too feminine, she muses just a beat later, and she closes her hand into a fist, flinging that at his jaw instead. She'd break his nose, but it'd mean taking him to a doctor. She hasn't the time for that.

He reels. "Oh, for _fuck's _sake_, _Natasha–"

"My hero," she spits, acid bleeding through her lips as she looks at him. She holds her hand up defensively, but he seems to process it as a challenge. "_Leave_–"

"No," he says. "I need someone to patch me up. Heal it and I'll leave."

Natasha doesn't meet his eyes until that lands, and she almost laughs – how desperate is he to see her? He isn't young like she remembers him, with wrinkles and odd, greyed hair where it should had been blond. She is silenced, this time, by the weight of his words. He is pleading with her. And the little breath of power makes her feel just well enough to speak.

"...And why should I?" She whispers, her gaze trying to be steady, not looking away from him.

"One hour," he repeats softly. A small, almost tiredly amused smile crosses his lips, and he looks at her. "All I'm asking."

"No," she says. Softer, A bit weaker.

Clint seems to consider it a while, and then he is waiting for her to make a move. She is absolutely, painfully still, however, and she sucks in a deep breath to join him in silence. He cannot help himself when he speaks again.

"You owe me a debt," he says softly.

She swears the hair on the back of her neck stands on end, the shiver running down her back. "How _dare_ you–"

"For saving your life." The blue of his eyes is absolutely calm, and he looks at her evenly. He wants her to know how he has her in a headlock, how she will be unable to run no matter how she attempts to try, attempts to leave him behind. "You owe me this. Save mine."

"Blackmail. It becomes you," she shoots back dryly.

"And biting and scratching suit you, don't they?" He returns, gesturing to the reddened marks on his arm. Clint doesn't move his weight, though, and he looks at her very seriously. She wonders absently if something has changed – because Clint Barton has never taken much seriously at all. "Please."

The blood is drying on his arm and she can't help but reach out and touch it, her worry ruling her mind for the briefest of moments. Friend. He could be her friend, her ally. All she needs to do is allow him back in with the presents, with the gifts and with the gentlest promise he will no longer leave her alone. And where is she finding that?

She will not concede, but she doesn't protest. Hell, she hauls him inside, chucking his bloodied body down to sit her on the couch. There are five minutes that she paces, and then she has a kit in her hands. She meets his eyes.

"You still remember how?" He prompts, soft.

"I'll do my best," she says, grabbing the fabric tight in her hands and ripping it apart.

She sets to work.

* * *

At first the conversation is bane and completely listless, and she can tell that he hasn't rehearsed this. He'd planned a time, for sure, and he eases her into human interaction. She is made to reply, made to talk about her New Year's Eve and made to talk about her life. It's like he knows what she's done, and she can't help but feel filthy once more.

He is asking her about her partners. About her experience. If there is anything, anything at all to it, she knows that he is fishing for her pains. She thinks that he's developed a sick obsession by the point, quick to ask about where she'd gotten the bruises. Perhaps he is the only man allowed into her life, now. How naïve, she muses. How adorable.

Even so, she remains interested despite herself. She allows him to talk, even if she won't offer a reply. Her fingers work slowly to seal his flesh back into his skin, meticulous in her repayment. Clint sighs just a bit after he hides a wince, not admitting pain.

"...I'm late, aren't I?"

It lulls for a moment, and his lips part more hesitantly as he approaches the next he has to say. Like walking on knives, even and slow, deliberate. If it had been anyone else, she may even have been confused. But they are both too tense to deny that they know what he speaks of.

She denies him a reply in her initial response, but it is ridiculous. Of course they are aware, and he doesn't render her any assistance to escape his questioning.

"Late for what?" She asks him again, feigning that she is innocent in taking the gifts, pretending they had been from a nameless, faceless admirer she would never spare a second glance for. Not the man who had discarded her, and not the man who stands before her now.

"I have it," he says, ignoring the words out of her mouth and focusing instead on the flicker of her gaze. It shutters for a half-second, telling her what he needs, and she hates it. She hates that her gaze has slipped beyond her control – honesty would ruin her, in the business. "More than usual. Could just leave it... when I'm gone."

"I don't want it," she says suddenly, the words passing through her lips before she fully registers that she even wants to say them.

Clint raises a brow as Natasha's head snaps up, her confusion evident on her face – an instinctive reaction, something far too open. Where had it come from? Had the exhaustion crept back to ruin her, perhaps, in his gaze? He parts his lips, now clean of blood, and he speaks slowly. "You... You've been using it," he says, not as a guess, but as an observation. "I've made sure."

"And I won't anymore," she says, trying quickly to find a new path. Some part of her wants to back-pedal, make sure that she has a stipend that isn't dependent on the men who she'll whore herself out to– No, _no_, not a 'whore'. She is better than the simple girl who sells her body for a few dollars. "I'll make it myself."

"Out of practice," he points out.

"And you'd know all about 'practice'," she snaps, jabbing him with the needle she has in his skin, slightly vengeful before she resumes the gentle patch-up. She is bent on repaying a debt to be rid of him, and she will do as he says. "Been fucked a lot, recently?"

"Yes," he says simply.

Natasha doesn't expect it to sting.

"...No matter," she says dismissively, masking it. She is used to this, used to playing the game with more than one man – she should never be so surprised at the affairs of others. Simply normal. "No one'll have you with this in your gut. Not that you'd enjoy it, even if a poor girl fell from the sky."

"She hasn't, not really," he says, shifting to allow her access when she nudges him. "Mean, I've spent my life a couple of times over protecting her."

"_Protecting_ me?" She snorts. Her hands pause for a moment – and God, she is too tired to argue, too tired to make a case for herself to defend her pride. Natasha is spent, and she can be honest about that. She is running out of patience, running out of a drive to keep moving forward. What then?

"...You could say so," he says quietly, unfazed, after a long silence. "Maybe from me."

The segue isn't missed, and Natasha doesn't bother to hide the deep frown that crosses her face. She is bandaging another cut she has sealed up, all small and deep – like knives missing the crucial organs, keeping him alive enough to come to her. And why her?

"From you," she says a bit slowly, and she looks up at him, patting his wound a little firmer than he would have liked. She smiles, her lips stretching into wide amusement, and she folds her arms before she stands. "Pretty fucking terrible job, if you ask me."

Clint can't help but smile at that; she can see in the way the wrinkles crease at the corner of his eyes, the way he seems just a bit older. He isn't the young man dragging her to America anymore. She just has to remember that, now. He sucks in a deep breath – he seems to need it, Natasha can see, but she doesn't quite know what he needs to steel himself for. It doesn't seem useful to her.

"Well, you're alive," he says finally, as if choosing the words from a pool of nothing. Like a conclusion picked out of thin air, twisted into a braid of friendship and held out to her. "I'll count it as a... success."

There is a weight behind the words she can't shake, and her brow furrows again as she begins to wrap around his torso, her fingers yanking gently at the bandage to get him covered up decently. Natasha considers it for a moment before she asks.

"...Why wouldn't I be?" It isn't like she has enemies in America, has she? She has run from the dangerous place as it is, and she doesn't need his protection in this place. That had been his protection for her, leading her somewhere she could live a life in the open. Outside of the red room. And that is what she owes her life for – and she hates to be reminded of it. "It isn't like you'd murder me," she attempts to inject in humour.

He shrugs, quiet. He doesn't offer a reply, but that in itself sets fire to a trail of possibilities. He had left her, and it wouldn't have been a stretch to leave her a poison in her morning drink. It could have been a little trip that resulted in enough of a hit in the head, and she would have gone. Some kind of simple assassination, one even she could plot in her young age. When she had been training.

It isn't long before Natasha's hands have stopped moving, her mind occupied. For a moment, she has forgotten that she is meant to be cross, meant to be pushing him out the door in a hurry. She even forgets to ask how the wounds have come about as her mind regresses into the paranoia. Clint will not have killed her – not trip-over-shoelaces Barton.

But he is bloody in front of her, with what looks far too much like bullet wounds. With that, Natasha hurries her hands to move faster, to knot the bandage so she can have him leave. "You're just yanking my chain," she mutters to herself, and she deftly folds the end of it in. Even in the tension between them she is able to joke about it, natural humour slipping through her lips with an unexpected weight. Why is that?

"But you don't really think that," he says a moment later, resting his hand over the wound, padding his fingers lightly over the little aid she'd given him. Clint winces a bit, still, and he straightens up to test his range of movement. Natasha watches her good work for a moment, ensuring that he won't be coming back to ask her to repair the job, and she sits back on her heels for a moment.

Well. The space gives her just enough time to drift, and she is connecting the images from before. From the first time, from when she'd seen him armed with a gun and with a spot of blood on his collar, sitting alone with his empty glass in the space she'd almost forgotten. She remembers how when he'd come up to stand beside her, to ask her – in a poor Russian tongue, not at all believable – if she had been okay, and she remembers how she had thought he would put a bullet in her then.

And she forces the memory of fear through the transit to the new land he'd promised her, too, when she'd been keeping her head down and attempting not to allow them to see her. She had covered her bright hair with a dye to hide her, and she had pressed into his side despite fear.

"...No," she says quietly, answering it belatedly, slightly absent in her gaze. Her fingers twist the remnants of the bandages in her fingers, thoughtfully winding them around her hands as if in some kind of trance she can't explain. Sometimes, even she understands why they had punished her for memory; it is crippling, and she cannot breathe when she is lost in the murky water of nostalgia.

She sees a muscle in his back tense, and she can't help but exhale a long breath, trying to get herself together before he speaks.

"That's to be expected," he says, going to get his shirt off the floor, wringing it out despite the dried blood before he attempts to get it back over his head. Clint even pauses, and he offers her a bit of a smile over his shoulder, almost trying to make amends with the tiny quirk of his lips. "You've only been holding a grudge for years."

She wishes in an instant that it had not worked before, and she plants her feet properly, defiant as she watches him move around. Natasha senses danger in letting him stay, and she takes a step forward. He faces her confidently, now, and he folds his arms.

"I've paid my debt," she says evenly, crossing hers over her chest in a subtle defence, raising a brow at him. "Haven't I? I'm a hero, now. Got a medal, or can you see yourself out?"

He snorts, and he reaches for his bag. "Not interested in the food?"

She'd almost forgotten, and she glances over to it – it looks edible, at least, the packaging tight enough that she's confident that it hasn't been spoiled. Natasha calculates the chance in her head, careful and wary, and she tucks the bandages back into the kit. "Leave it or take it with you, I don't care," she says callously.

"But you're obviously hungry," he counters in an attempt to manoeuvre around her, sharp as his focus zeroes in on her eyes. Clint reeks of knowledge he isn't telling her, and she doesn't think for a second that she can trust him any more than she already does. Not until he offers more.

"Who's to say?"

"It doesn't matter to me if you're eating, Nat. But if you want it, it'll be there," Clint sighs for the briefest of moments, unwrapping the boxes and carefully shifting the plastic around them so the blood cannot stain the box. It's a feeble effort, on his part, and he fails. But Natasha doesn't move, simply watching.

"Wound's going to take a while to heal," she offers, breaking the silence as his fingers fiddle with the knot in the plastic. She keeps her arms folded, regarding him.

"So let me stay." The plastic breaks, and Clint is silent as he unpacks the food – forsaking the endeavour of keeping it clean, he simply arranges the boxes out where she can see them. "I'll be out of your hair in the morning."

"Better fucking be. How'd you get shot?" She finally asks then, bringing the elephant in the room under the harsh light of interrogation. Natasha sticks her hands into her pockets now, and she looks evenly at his wounds. She knows they come from a very specific _type_ of fight. She wants to know how he managed to wind himself in it, however.

"Everyone's armed, these days," he tries to murmur for conviction, quiet. His gaze shutters, but even so, Natasha knows it's a lie. It always is with Clint, she supposes, and she is no longer surprised. He is like her, really, with a past they don't ever speak about, and probably for good measure. "Pick a fight, bullets fly."

"Not you," she points out, quiet. Natasha only vaguely remembers him pushing the gun away from him, saying that it was hardly his weapon of choice. She remembers noting him down as a good person, and she remembers keeping her pistol firmly tucked into her holster when by his side. "You said you hated them."

"Hated what?" He sees distracted as he cracks chopsticks, welcoming himself into her home again without permission. It isn't like she can move him. Clint has always been obstinate, and he doesn't ever listen to a word she says anyway – even when seeking her forgiveness, it seems. "What d'you mean 'them'?"

"Guns," she supplies, deciding to drop her weight beside him. There is a resignation to the way she moves, knowing that she isn't due to win, and she grabs a fork for herself. Natasha doesn't think too hard about how she will force him to leave, and how she will probably forget this time of piece in the morning. "You hate them."

"I do– _Ow_." Natasha had prodded him in the side with her elbow, and a smirk crosses her lips. It's a tiny piece of revenge, and she looks at him. Somehow, in the back of her mind, she notes that her ire falls away in favour of a sort of obsession with his memory – and she thinks she still knows him, when she's almost sure she knows nothing at all. "Guess I needed... t'be on guard, and I wasn't."

"Guard?" She asks, amused. "Precious cargo got stolen?"

"...Yeah. Precious cargo... kept alive. Got wind of something, had to stand in the way, and it fucked up," Clint sighs – he seems to be peppering his words, and he is again masking something with a smile a moment later. It always has unsettled her, and she doesn't see it changing anytime soon. "So, shot and injured."

Natasha nods, and she considers that – sometimes, when she is wandering down the street, she even thinks that she misses the blood, misses being able to move through and make a kill when she isn't seen. It must be too dark to tell anyone, though she knew that Clint had understood when they had been together.

"So," she begins after a pause, her words considered. "The slut and the murderer."

He snorts a laugh, and he shakes his head. Somehow, the year of short letters doesn't at all seem like him, now, and he looks up at her. His eyes are aged, uncomfortable, and he looks at her with a bit of a haze in his eyes. Natasha knows this look, though. She hasn't seen it for so long, and yet, it had been the same look that had yanked her by the ankle and thrown her into the lion's pit.

The same look he'd given her in Russia. The first.

"Guess you're wondering what I've been up to," he offers finally, twisting a dumpling around in his chopsticks, almost too deep in thought.

"Still playing hero, I'm guessing," she mutters, picking at her noodles. They share a bit of a smile, and Natasha shakes her head. Sure, she hasn't allowed him in, but she isn't all that angry anymore. She has no reason to be, and she knows that being cross has done nothing for her but... given her the desperation she needed to survive.

Perhaps, even in her odd calm, she is thankful for that.

"Tried, once," he says quietly, and he looks over at her with a long, thoughtful gaze. It seems that he almost smiles at what he'd done. Clint doesn't seem to think hard anymore, and Natasha thinks she might simply follow him. Mental, of course, but she doesn't think much else _isn't_. "Being a hero. Didn't matter much, but... think I failed."

Natasha stiffens – she had almost been ready to release it. Her hands had been dangling it over the water, she thinks, and she had been ready to let it submerge. Deep into the ocean she has grown fond of in her musings, so that she can return to peace. So she can allow him to wade back into the shore, where she can hope to receive him.

"Look, 'Tasha," he sighs after a beat. Clint shifts a bit, pulling a leg up to his knee, and he quiets. He drums his fingers nervously on his shin, and he exhales with a soft hiss. She attempts to be patient, but she is wary – her back is coiled tight and she is ready to bolt. Regardless of what he says, she thinks. It screams danger to her. "I'm not doing that anymore, yeah?"

"What, exactly?"

"Shootin' arrows. Bit like how you shot guns," he says like it's the most normal thing in the world. For them, perhaps it is, though Natasha thinks that it's nearing eight years that she hasn't lifted a barrel to someone's head and squeezed the trigger. She remembers that she has always preferred her hands, anyway. "Taking a break. Chose to come see you, hoping... you'd let me stay."

Natasha shutters. He is asking for permission that she isn't sure how to give, with her cage still shut with her rusted padlocks. She doesn't quite want to hand over a key, but Clint seems to be working his way through them quite fine. With a hairpin, or with the sheer desperation of force.

"Think you own the place, anyway," she says finally, turning away from him. She stands, needing to vent the restless energy. Clint knows, he always knows, but she does it anyway. She doesn't have anything to lose, and there's nothing worth shoving under the rug. "Take the couch, take the bed, whatever. I've got work to do, just–"

"I'll take care of it," he says to her. "Come on. I'll pay for the losses. Just... stay."

She closes her hands into fists, and grits her teeth before she gives him an even look. "I'm not like one of your whores," she whispers to him, and she presses her lips into a hard line. "I choose who gets to me, Clint."

He recoils like he's been burned, and he sucks in a deep breath. Clint tenses his hand in his lap, having set his chopsticks down, and he closes his eyes. His voice is low and hoarse when it speaks again, and the words seem too carefully chosen. Considered for days, weeks – months.

"That was a whole other lifetime, and youknow it."

"Was it, really?" She laughs, bitter. Natasha steps forward, the red curls slipping off her shoulders as her eyes zero in on his. "Was it a _lifetime_ ago? Have you forgotten what it was like?"

He sputters out a protest, and he joins her in standing. He smooths out his response, though, and the deep timbre of his voice responds with equal vigour. "I had to protect you!"

"From what–?"

"From _me_." Clint has his hand out in an effort to reach her; there is tension in his fingers that neither of them can explain, where he wants to move. It's just the same as her, trying to suppress the absolute instinct for them to draw and rest their barrels against the other's head. Natasha sucks in a deep breath, and she closes her eyes before she forcibly loosens her posture, like unwinding an old spring permanently loaded.

"From you," she repeats quietly. "_Pray_ tell. What, in the name of God, is wrong with you?"

"It doesn't matter," he says to her, and he steps forward. Clint folds his arms, and he shakes his head. The blond closes his eyes, and he lets out a sigh when he tries to gather his thoughts. Both of them know that he has never been good with words – she had always been the wordsmith, with her targets and with her employers. She had always been the talker, but with him, she has always listened.

And now she needs him to talk, and he needs her to open her ears for him. "It matters," she says softly, barely audible, urging him to continue.

"Not really – Both of us. We're fucked up, 'Tasha, though I don't give a shit. Okay? You fuck for a living, and we've both killed for a living, and I don't _care_ about that. Not anymore," Clint goes on, and he tries to blurt everything before he loses his nerve. He is gentle but he is fearful – even she can smell that on him, and she lends her support.

She considers her response, but she decides that she will shut her mind down and let it be silent for as long as she _can_ be. "No, it _matters_, because we're here, and you're–"

"I don't care that you're ex-KGB," he says tiredly. Clint tries to get her to look at him, looking far too weary – they're both in no state to fight, but these words need to be said. "You've worked for the 'enemy'. You're on the streets, and SHIELD's going to kill me for picking you up, but it's _okay_."

Natasha's brow creases, and her face twists into a frown. "SHIELD?"

Clint stops, and he shakes his head. "Just a name. See? All of it," he says, calling her focus back. His steely eyes are imploring, and Natasha doesn't know if she can simply swallow that. She runs her fingers weakly through her hair, and she shakes her head.

"We're more than 'now', Clint," she says quietly. It isn't even a refusal to accept what he says, but the truth that she has established for herself. "We're all of that, pieced together."

He pauses, and he nods before he takes the last step for him to be able to rest his forehead against hers. Gentle, warm and whole. "...Yeah," he murmurs, sucking in a deep breath, and she can feel him breathing. Natasha can feel the little peace that her touch offers him, and for a moment, she feels like she might be at peace, too. "Tomorrow. Whatever y'want."

She nods, but she doesn't jostle him where he is resting against her. She tilts her head up slightly, and she opens her eyes to search his for a moment. She allows fear to flicker over the emerald of her lenses, and she thinks that he does understand. Enough of her, at least. He can hold her together with sheer force.

In that silence, her traitor mind slips in the word that she thinks they are both looking for. The word that has her angry and needy and broken all at once, and the one that binds him to her despite everything. Clint has come back to her, and he is there, holding her hands and promising not to leave.

"This is for children," she murmurs very quietly, and even then Natasha lets out another breath, and she is naturally curling against his chest. As easy as breathing, like he is coming home. It seems absolutely mental – even in the midst of a fight, he still has the absolute scent of mint. She doesn't think she'll ever manage to forget.

"...Well, I'm about five right now," he says, and his arm is slow as it comes up. It slides around her shoulders, and his fingers grip her gently. Clint breathes out into her hair, and it's warm. The warmest thing all winter, she supposes. He is there, and he is in their flat, and he is holding her again after almost eight years. He is home.

She is home, too.

* * *

**END**

* * *

I'm thinking of possibly writing an epilogue, but otherwise this is goodbye for now! Do let me know if you're interested. I'll see you when Fault comes back. Thank you for joining me! :)


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